Digging up the fresh grave and lifting the coffin lid, the two men froze in stunned silence. What lay before them split their lives into “before” and “after.”
A chilly autumn wind howled through the wreaths of artificial flowers, making the funeral ribbons flutter like restless souls unable to find peace. It was the fifth burial procession of the day winding its way down the main path of the old cemetery. The fifth coffin lowered into the damp, unwelcoming earth. The fifth soul officially sentenced to oblivion by the world.
Trevor and Nigel sat in a crumbling brick shelter, hiding from the persistent wind. Their eyes, sharpened by constant wariness, lazily followed the ceremony. The ritual of grief was just background noise to them, part of the job. They stood, brushed off their threadbare trousers, andadopting suitably mournful expressionsapproached the weeping crowd. They moved from person to person, muttering vague condolences and shaking cold hands. No one paid much attention to the two shabby men in worn-out jackets. Grief was the great equaliser, erasing social divides. In moments like these, any kindness, even from strangers, felt like warmth in an ocean of loss. Nobody asked who they were. Nobody stopped them from saying goodbye. The collective numbness of sorrow played right into their hands.
The last funeral of the day, however, caught their attention. Everything about it screamed money. The polished dark wood coffin with heavy brass handles, lavish wreaths of real flowers oozing sickly-sweet perfume, and the cars waiting by the gatesnot battered old Fords, but sleek imports with tinted windows. Trevor went first. He peered into the coffin, his face twitching in a perfect imitation of bereavement. He crossed himself fervently, whispered a practised prayer, and stepped back, pretending to wipe away a tear. Nigel, after a tactful pause, repeated the act with even more theatrical sighs. Their eyes met briefly, the faintest smirk tugging at their lips. Without a word, they retreated to their shelter. Tonights haul promised to be more than decent. They just had to wait for nightfall.
The deceased, as theyd learned from a chatty old woman on the burial team, was one Margaret Eleanor Whitmore. She lay in the coffin wearing a lavish velvet gown, her withered earlobes adorned with heavy gold earrings studded with deep red stonesprobably rubies. No doubt thered been a hefty gold cross on her chest too, the proper way to send someone off.
When the grey dusk swallowed the last traces of daylight and the cemetery fell silent, broken only by the rustle of fallen leaves, they got to work. The sky, as if to spite them, had clouded over, and a cold, drizzly rain began to fall. The wet earth clung to their shovels, each scoop a weary effort. Their hands went numb, their backs ached, but the thought of the promised reward drove them on. This job had to be finished. There was no other way.
Their friendshipa twisted joke of fatehad begun years ago in prison. Two lonely men, two broken lives. The world outside had been just as unforgiving as the walls theyd left behind. Trevor had grown up in a childrens home, where dreaming was discouraged and survival was the only lesson. Nigels own family had disowned him the moment he was convicted, treating him like a leper. Freedom had offered them nothing but destitutionno roof, no jobs, no second chances. Theyd landed inside for stupid mistakes: Trevor for nicking a measly few hundred quid from the factory till where hed worked as a labourer, Nigel for a drunken brawl that left his opponent with a broken jaw.
Nobody wanted to hire ex-cons, middle-aged men who reeked of desperation and prison. So theyd taken the easiest, grimmest pathgrave robbing. They soothed themselves with a cynical mantra: “The dead dont need it. Its just rotting in the ground. At least this way, we get a proper meal.” The thought dulled the shame.
Slipping between the headstones like shadows, confirming they were alone in the vast field of the dead, they reached the fresh mound. Their shovels bit into the soft earth. Finally, the dull thud of metal on wood. They loosened the ropes, heaved the heavy lid aside
And recoiled in horror, icy fear washing away every cynical thought.
“Trevor you see that? Shes breathing?” Nigel croaked, his voice dropping to a whisper thick with dread. In the weak torchlight, the lace on the old womans chest seemed to rise and fall.
“Shut it!” Trevor hissed, unable to tear his eyes from the corpse-pale face.
Then it happened. A thin, blue-veined hand shot from the coffin, bony fingers clamping around Nigels wrist with impossible strength. Both menhardened by prison, fearing neither God nor devilyelped in unison, stumbling back.
“Let go, you witch! Damn you!” Trevor babbled, crossing himself with a shaking hand.
“Shut your trap! Shes alive! Bloody alive, you idiot!” Nigel roared, not from fear now, but shock and sudden clarity.
They didnt take the gold. Instead, they hauled the “corpse” out of the gravelight as a skeleton wrapped in skinand collapsed onto the wet grass, gasping between hysterical laughter and sobs. The old woman coughed, her body shuddering, and cracked open milky but very much alive eyes. Without a word, they carried her to the caretakers hut at the edge of the cemeteryempty, thankfully. They laid her on the hard cot, draping their grubby jackets over her.
“An ambulance gotta call one,” Trevor choked out, still disbelieving.
Then the woman the world had already mourned found her voice. Weak, rasping, but razor-sharp:
“No no doctors. Someone buried me alive. A very specific someone. And he needs a lesson.”
Her gaze sharpened as she took in her rescuerstheir dirt-stained clothes, the shovels.
“And you why were you digging graves at night?”
Trevor and Nigel exchanged glances. The truth was bitter, but lying now was pointless.
“Trying to make a living, love,” Nigel muttered, hanging his head. “Your jewellery we wanted it. Were grave robbers.”
No horror crossed her face. No judgement. Just cold, calculating thought.
“Then youd best go back and fill in that grave. Clean up the mess. And Ill pay you for the job. For saving meextra.”
So they returned to the gaping black pit. Digging now felt even worse. They were burying evidence, burying a terrible secret. Finished, they trudged back to the hut, soaked, filthy, and hollow.
“Where dyou live?” Trevor asked, unsure what came next. “Well take you home?”
Margaretnow a person, not a corpseshook her head bitterly.
“They wont be expecting me. My husbandtwenty years my junioris likely celebrating with his mistress right now. Toasting his freedom.”
Nigel whistled.
“Sorry, love, but what did you expect?”
“An opportunist,” she said, her voice trembling not with tears but icy rage. “He slipped something into my tea. Thought I wouldnt survive. But Ive always been strongsports, clean living. He wanted my money, my business. And death its easy to mistake for a deep sleep, especially when the coroners been paid to look the other way.”
So the ex-cons took her to their dingy rented flat on the citys outskirts. Two rooms reeking of poverty and despair became a temporary refuge for three people bound by a gruesome secret.
Meanwhile, in a sleek corporate office, a sombre memorial for Margaret Whitmore was underway. Employees gatheredrespectful, if not fond. Shed been a steel magnolia, turning a small firm into an empire. Her husband, Adrian, handsome and polished, played the grieving widower flawlessly. Everyone knew hed been her right-hand manin truth, a sycophantic leech whod sweet-talked his way into her life. Now, with her gone, hed install his cronies and purge her loyal staff. The company was doomed.
Adrian, barely hiding his triumph beneath a mask of sorrow, was midway through his grand vision for the future when the conference room doors burst open.
And in she walked.
Silence. Those facing away felt the shift and turned. Adrian went sheet-white, the microphone trembling in his hand. It was as if a ghost had stepped into the roomthe embodiment of his worst nightmares.
“Hello, darling,” Margaret said, her voice like shattering glass. “You dont look pleased to see me. And here we were, saying our goodbyes”
“Meg, Iwe” he stammered, backing away.
“I came back,” she said, stalking toward him as the crowd parted, mesmerised. “Unfinished business. But I havent the time for lies. Let the professionals handle it.”
The doors opened again. Police officers stepped in. A search of Adrians flat had turned up vials of drugs and receipts
